When John Dies
by jessica.k.peck.9
Summary: What would Sherlock do if John dies? (Oneshot. Could be seen as a Johnlock but wrote it as a friend piece. Please read and review!)


Sherlock perched himself on he stool next to his experiments table in the kitchen. The microscope in front of him, surrounded by untouched bottles and beakers.

He held a syringe in one hand, thumb poised on the plunger. Needle resting against the skin of his forearm.

He felt that emotion. Fear.

It gripped at his heart and caught his breath. It controlled him and he hated it.

His mind yearned for the calm and freedom the drug offered. All he had to do was push the needle in and the plunger down.

But he was scared.

Of what? He didn't know.

Was it the pain? The sharp sting of the needle or the crushing realty when he comes down? The latter was worse, how could he go on without him?

John.

The man's face appeared in his mind. His smile, his eyes, his forever patient expression mixed with exasperation when dealing with him.

The smallest smile picked at the corners of his mouth, before disappearing. Sherlock face going slack with shock as his mind replayed the smile John had given him before _that_ happened.

_John had just spotted him from across the road. He -_

No ! He wouldn't think about that. He couldn't.

His grip tightened on the syringe and he squeezed his eyes shut. Dispelling those images from the forefront of his mind. He wished to get rid of them entirely but they refused to leave.

He longed to escape into his mind palace. To feel that warmth and bliss that welcomed him into the stream of knowledge caged in his mind. But it was blocked off by one emotion he had not felt since The Woman.

Grief.

Yes, he was grieving. There was no other word for it. This time it was worse though.

Much much worse. With the woman he had suspected that she was still alive, even after seeing the evidence. He hand clung onto that hope with desperation.

But there was no hope this time. No relief to his pain.

Except in the syringe sitting in his hand.

He stared down at it, needle still pressed against the inside of his forearm. The metal was cold on his skin, like death.

Gritting his teeth, he tightened his grip on the syringe and tensed - ready to push the needle in. He focused his gaze on the tip of the needle, pulling his lips back in a snarl -

Then he stopped.

John's hand reached towards him from the corner of hs eye. It hovered over the syringe, as if to take it away.

Gasping in shock - his treacherous heart soaring in joy - he turned to look at him. John! His one and only friend. It was all a dream - it had to be!

Nothing.

The room was empty. John wasn't standing next to him. He was alone.

His heart felt crushed. His own mind had betrayed him. The one thing he had always relied on had betrayed him.

He gulped and blinked rapidly. His heart hurt and his eyes stung. Something wet and salty rolled down his cheek and into the corner of his mouth. He was crying.

He gasped as the realisation came to him. More tears flooded from his eyes. At first he tried to fight them. He was Sherlock Holmes, he wouldn't cry!

But it was useless. He felt broken, a deep pit of nothing yawned in front of him and he couldn't get away from it. The image of a deer frozen in headlights appeared in his mind. He was that deer. Caught in the headlights of reality - of pain - suffering - and grief. About to die from the impact of everything he had tried to avoid for so long.

_John had just spotted Sherlock from across the road. He held two take-away coffee cups in his hands. When John saw him, his face lit up, Sherlock remembered smiling back briefly -_

Sherlock shook the memory away and squeezed his eyes shut, almost stopping the tears from flowing. But they continued to leak through the cracks of his being. His shell broken by a loss too great to bare.

He _could not_ bare it! His colleague! His friend! His _only_ friend!

He cried out in anguish as his heart shattered in his chest. His breath came in short sharp gasps. His hand's went weak and the syringe tumbled from his grasp.

"John would not want this! John would not want this! John would not! He wouldn't!"

He gripped fistfuls of his hair and pulled. Bending his back so he doubled over, pulling his knees up - his mouth open in a silent scream.

_- John smiled as he stepped out onto the road. His eyes on Sherlock as he began to cross towards him with two take-away cups in his hands._

_He never noticed the truck - even before it hit him._

Sherlock found his voice as he saw it again. John's body crushed by that truck. Eyes open and seeing nothing.

The coffee spilling into the gutters with the blood that stained his hands red.

Sherlock screamed into his lap and raked his hands through his hair and down his face.

He wanted to tear the images out of his mind! He wanted to stop thinking! He wanted it to stop hurting_ so much!_

"JOHN! _Help me_!"

* * *

**AN: Sorry if I made you cry. :)**

**Please review! This is my first Sherlock fic! **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock!**


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